


fine arts and prints

by ElasticElla



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Manipulation, background dot/jocelyn/luke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-17
Updated: 2016-05-17
Packaged: 2018-06-08 22:55:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6878188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElasticElla/pseuds/ElasticElla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Magnus Bane, the warlock, promised to keep them from all but simple peasants, so that they might blend into the world. And for seventeen long years, he kept them safe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	fine arts and prints

Once upon a time, in a land far away, there was King and Queen who sought to better the world. But as the years passed, the King turned bitter and did not wish to save the world but to save his own kind. His people were dying at an alarming rate, and needed to be protected more than anything or anyone else. And if the rest of the world needed to burn, if the others should die, then they would all perish to preserve his world. 

Now the Queen, who had long sensed her husband's growing anger, and had long fallen out of love with him, did not know what to do. She looked to her closest friends and nearly lovers for help: Luke and Dot. They scoured the kingdom as quietly as they could, seeking a magic or object or land- anything that might help the newly pregnant Queen escape with his most important weapon. 

Now the King who was the suspicious sort, called Lucien to go on a hunt with him, claiming false brotherhood. And Luke did, having no reason to disobey his King, certain he was walking into an imminent death. The werewolf's teeth were a blessing in disguise, though it took many moons for Luke to believe that. 

Dot found the warlock, far older and stronger than herself, who might help keep them hidden. His price was steep- that if the Queen had a daughter she should live out her adult years in a singular tower, well warded but alone. And anything being better than the King knowing of her child, the Queen agreed. She was certain the babe would be a boy, he must be to withstand a life hidden from view.

Magnus Bane, the warlock, promised to keep them from all but simple peasants, so that they might blend into the world. And for seventeen long years, he kept them safe. The Queen's daughter was born with bright orange hair as if to mock their need for secrecy. Clarissa grew up into a pretty bright maiden with no knowledge of her heritage, and three very overprotective parents: her mother Jocelyn, Luke, and Dot. But the night before her eighteenth birthday, the warlock came for his payment, and none of the once-Queen's tears moved him. None of the younger warlock's spells or potions interested him. 

The no longer new werewolf bartered in private, and for what his two lovers never learned, but Magnus amended his payment. The child would still live alone in her tower, but a Downworlder might save her if they could fall in love. A true kiss, whether by love or lust, passion or yearning, would make the magical walls crumble down and free the princess. 

And while many a Downworlder heard the legend of Clarissa, of the princess with fiery hair, few attempted to save her. Most that would risk their lives would only do so to have leverage over the King- even in hiding, he still scared many. Those that tried to enter with malicious intent never crossed the threshold, much less climbed up the endless stairs. The stairs were the true test of dedication, and not a one had ascended them. 

Clarissa told herself it didn't matter. She missed Simon and Maureen, but her friends had each other at least. Her mother had finally admitted the past and the payment, something Luke and Dot had apparently been trying to get her mom to talk about over dinners. (Which did at least explain over a dozen awkward openings about 'the good old days'.)

It could have been worse- there could have been no hope for escape. And with a magically refilling kitchen, more art supplies than Clary's ever seen in her life, and a rent free tower- well, she's doing better than she probably would have been in the outside world right now. (Not that she can think like that, because what kind of _future_ does a girl like her even-)

Clary has been in the tower for three years, long enough that she's lost track of time and adorned all her walls with artwork. Sometime in the second half of her first year she realizes the art materials are like food and can replenish themselves, and she stops hoarding materials, lets herself cover every inch of a canvas without direction. 

It's in her third year, that Clary gets her very first visitor. 

There's a knock, and Clary opens the door with a curious smile. She's trying not to expect anything- but tales of old keep knocking around in her head of knights in shining armor. And even with her muffled expectations, a smirking woman leaning on the door frame is the very last thing she expects. 

“Sorry, please come in,” Clary says when she realizes she's been staring. “I'm Clary, you are?” 

The woman looks around with a low whistle, “Impressed. This looks much more like a singular palace than prison.” 

Clary crosses her arms, and bites back the retort that she'd love to leave then. To just have the magical barrier at her doorway dissipate. She hasn't seen any of her parents in ages, Magnus having been sure to eliminate parental concern from the first ward to keep Luke or Dot from visiting. 

“Camille,” the woman pauses at Clary's blank look, “it's my name darling.”

“Oh, it's nice to meet you,” Clary says, stopping herself before she adds something embarrassingly cheesy like, a pretty name for a pretty woman. (It wouldn't even be true, Camille is _stunning_.)

“So, what do you do for fun around here?” 

Clary gestures to the walls, “Mostly drawing. Paints and chalk are my favorites.”

Camille smiles, “These are good, if a little redundant.” 

Clary snorts, “My one window view doesn't change much. And drawing from memory… it hasn't worked so well.” 

Camille shrugs, tosses herself across the nearby couch, “Paint me then.” 

She likes the idea, even if she doesn't like how the woman ordered it. “Uh huh, and whatever will my payment be?” 

Camille smiles, as though she were waiting for Clary to ask. “Why a kiss of course, if you capture my likeness well.” 

And Clary gets her paints at that, is sure she can do it. 

Camille tells her about the outside world as Clary paints, her lips barely moving as a stream of information passes. It's distracting, hell all of Camille is distracting, and it's too obvious on the canvas. Her lips are a little too red, her eyes a little large, her expression too sultry. 

It's all too much. Clary's only just met her, doesn't even know what type of Downworlder she is. It'd be beyond rude to ask, although Clary's fairly certain she isn't fae- the fae were supposed to carry nature's mark on their face. 

The night passes with paint strokes and softly spoken words. An hour before dawn, Camille yawns. 

“I'm afraid I must return home before the gates close. Might I see my painting?”

Clary gulps, eyes flickering between the two versions of Camille, standing up and blocking it. 

“It's no good.” Clary says, and the late hour makes her bolder, “I can't possibly ask a kiss of you.” 

Camille cocks her head, “I see. Shall I return tomorrow so that you may try again?” 

And a wide grin crosses her lips, “I'd like that.” 

.

Clary sleeps better than ever that late night to mid-afternoon. She bathes when she wakes, singing off-key with the birds and feeling a little like, well, a princess. She makes enough stew for there to be plenty of leftovers, though she isn't sure if Camille can or would even like lamb stew. Werewolves and warlocks could have stew she knew for a fact, and growing up, Luke and Dot kept the same diet as her and Mom. (Luke did eat _a lot_ of dried meats, but Clary's pretty sure that was more of a Luke thing than a werewolf thing. The same went for Dot and her pomegranate seeds.)

Gargoyles only ate stone- though Clary supposes she wouldn't mind another window, and vampires only drank blood. Which she has, she thinks with a chill that isn't entirely fear. Clary can't remember any more species, and she knows there are plenty more which is irritating. She wishes there were a library for perhaps the millionth time since her eighteenth birthday. 

Camille appears again, this time right after sundown and Clary is a little relieved- both that she came back and that she _could_. 

The second night it turns into a pattern: Camille and her talking while she draws, and Clary pretending that this drawing won't be just as skewed as the night before's. Tonight is chalk, and her hands are already a colorful mess when she gets to Camille's breasts- and she's never felt so skeezy while making art before. She knows her interest isn't just aesthetic, it's blatant on the page.

And at the end of the night, Clary asks her to come again and Camille doesn't look surprised. She is smiling though, so Clary decides it's okay. 

.

Days turn into weeks into months, and Camille never fails to show up at night and leave before dawn. She's politely refused any sustenance, and Clary doesn't know if it's a problem of type or quality. 

Clary's pretty sure Camille's a vampire. She can't think of a good way to ask though, so she doesn't. One afternoon, long before Camille's due to arrive, she paints her with fangs, blood dripping down her chin. 

It's erotic and horrific and beautiful all at once, and it somehow looks more like Camille than any other picture Clary's ever made. 

She burns it in a fit of guilt, is still trying to wash oil paints from under her fingernails when Camille arrives. 

.

Clary's lost count of how many days Camille has come. She could count the artwork- only destroyed the one extracurricular work- but they stack so nicely under her bed. Clary never thought she'd let it get so far, but imagining if Camille rejected her now, if she had to go back to solitary living is too terrible to consider. 

Still, she takes it as a sign when there isn't an inch of space left under her bed. She sets out her most vibrant paints and a fresh canvas and her favorite brushes. Tonight would be the night, she would be brave. 

Camille is either a telepathic witch or she has curious luck, as she appears in her doorway in her fanciest wear yet- a beautiful and unmistakably seductive red dress. 

Her lipstick matches, Clary idly notes, mouth dry. 

“Good evening Clary, I thought we could use the white couch today.” 

“Of course,” Clary says as though there was another option and Camille brushes by her. “Maybe tonight I'll see the finished product.” 

And the teasing sentence isn't close to new, but Clary grabs her pencil with a smile. “I think so.” 

Clary's gotten to the paints when she decides to ask. “So I know how the first and last doors work,” she says, the first door blocking all of ill intent and the last of all that wouldn't love her. “But how do the stairs work?” 

Camille smiles, nails skating over her hip before re-posing the hand. “The stairs are only a mind trick to make you feel as though an eternity has passed before you finish ascending them.” 

Clary's jaw might drop. “And you do that, every day?” 

Camille laughs, “If you are not one worried by time, the trick does not work. The twenty flights are more than I usually climb, but I've gotten rather used to them.” 

Clary shakes her head, reassessing the painting so far. It's technically in Camille's likeness, but it doesn't have any of her personality- has turned flat in her attempt to keep away her own inclinations. She paints over it, lets the dress cling a little more, her lips curl a little higher, and Camille's dark eyes dance. It's still more than Clary intends, but it's too late now, the sun will be up soon. 

“Your painting,” Clary says, gesturing, like her stomach isn't doing backflips and her nerves aren't going haywire. 

Camille's smile is coy, self-satisfied. “You did well. May I keep it?”

“Yeah,” and there's an empty beat while Camille looks over the painting's details and Clary wishes she'd just get the kiss out of the way. She knows Camille too well now though, knows the woman will drag it out with teasing glances and words. 

“Should I kiss you?” Clary asks, and Camille blinks twice before nodding. 

And Clary doesn't know if it's love or lust or both, but she pushes every ounce of yearning into the kiss, feels magic trickle down her spine. 

Camille has her hand in hers, “I think it worked. Are you ready?” 

Clary nods, “Absolutely.” 

And together, they approach the doorway, and this time, there is no invisible barrier keeping her inside and she steps across with Camille.

.

At the base of her tower, Camille tells her she is indeed a vampire, asks if she can speed them both to her home before the sun rises. Clary fights back a blush, isn't entirely successful as she agrees. Camille sweeps her up into her arms bridal style, and runs all the way home before the sun's tendrils can turn her to dust. 

A castle without windows is the last place Clary would have imagined wanting to be after her single window cell, but Camille's here and that's good enough for her. It still feels sudden, but they did break a spell with a true kiss- so really, how quickly could they be moving? 

Camille brings them to her bedroom, a matching decadent casket and bed in the corner. 

“We'll talk after some sleep, agreed?” 

Clary nods, and something feels a little off, but she chalks it up to being newly freed, slipping into bed. The silk sheets are even comfier than her bed in the tower- and that bed was plenty comfy. 

Clary wakes up to soft wet sounds, blinking her eyes open to see Camille at a small table, sipping blood out of a mug. She grimaces automatically, tries to turn it into a weak smile- but it's too late, Camille's face has already gone icy. 

“Did your mother tell you where she hid the mortal cup?” 

Clary crosses her arms, shivering. “Good morning to you too.” 

Camille offers a saccharine sweet smile, “Good morning love. Mortal cup?” 

“I have no clue what you're talking about. Can I go home now? I haven't seen my parents in- I don't even know how long-”

“Your mother is under Valentine's control, and your other two parents are missing. I need you to think hard about the cup- it could save your mother.” 

“A cup?” Clary asks incredulously, but searching her memory for any mention of a cup. She can't think of anything, but a worrying idea _does_ come to mind instead, “Did- did you save me for some cup?” 

Camille rolls her eyes, “You wouldn't understand. This cup will save my kind, and all Downworlders from people like your father.”

There's a growing panic as Clary recalls each barrier, remembering Magnus's explanation for how each would protect her from those that would just use her. “How did you get past the final barrier?” 

“It's not that I love you darling, it's that I _could_ love you.” 

“Those are practically the same thing!” Clary exclaims, eyes darting around the room for a weapon. (Like Camille would keep stakes or swords in her bedroom, Clary can't help but derisively think to herself.)

And Camille almost frowns, almost looks pitying, “No my dear, they are not.” 

“The first barrier?” Clary makes herself ask. 

“I thought of it as saving the Downworlders, not vanquishing the old King.”

Clary feels like she might be sick, thinking back on endless nights they spent together. 

“Oh don't be like that darling,” Camille says, “your best option is to work with me. I want the cup and you want your parents, it's like destiny.”

And one day, one day Clary isn't going to need her anymore, and she's going to punch the smug vampire in her pretty smug little face. She can't believe less than a day ago she was daydreaming about this... this woman. (Clary hopes the last traces of the warlock's magic destroyed every last canvas under her old bed.)

**Author's Note:**

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>  [femslash trash](http://parkwest.tumblr.com/)


End file.
